A Drop of Golden Sun
by BlueStrawberries
Summary: A story of renewal
1. The Threshold

**Disclaimer:** 'The Sound of Music' is the property of Twentieth Century Fox.

**Thanks:** To Janie, my wonderful beta – the most organised person I know who somehow managed to fit this in amidst a hectic gap year. I stand in chaotic awe.

* * *

**A Drop of Golden Sun**

**The Threshold**

He had not expected it to turn out so. But then his life had been anything but predictable. Fighting for an Empire which he believed to be indestructible – only to find it in ruins after bloodiest war in history. Finding solace in a woman for whom he would cheerfully have laid down his life – only to find that her life was the one God wanted.

Now, as Georg stepped out onto the terrace on this, his twentieth wedding anniversary, his heart gave the sort of painful stab he usually associated with the weeks immediately after Agathe's death. The fact that they had discussed this day intensified his pain; every word she said had taken on an untold resonance. Bringing his fist down on the terrace balustrade he felt a savage pleasure as it made contact with the smooth granite. 'Oh, Agathe,' he groaned, 'it's you…you who I loved more than a man could ever love a woman…'

_Her face, though bathed in sweat, held nothing but beauty for him. Smiling that small smile which she always produced to reassure him, Agathe gripped his hand, fondly caressing the ring on his little finger. Propped up in their bed, she looked tiny, her once creamy complexion now a mixture of greyish skin and protuberant bone._

'_I want you to know something, Georg.'_

'_Yes, darling?' Pressing his other hand over her fragile one. _

'_I love you.'_

'_Don't, Agathe…' – he clenched his teeth. 'Don't start saying goodbye. Don't you dare…'_

'_It won't be goodbye, Georg.' She smiled with a serenity that belied the tears in her eyes. 'I'll always be with you, always loving you, loving our children…'_

'_Please God, Agathe, stop this, I can't stand it…' The thought of her dying was an abyss, a black hole in an inconceivable future. Recovering slightly, he gripped her hand tighter. 'You're going to get better, my love, - you're going to get better and everything will be as it was.' He said it more to convince himself than her._

'_Oh, Georg, if only that were true…' she breathed, the memory of the doctor's diagnosis fading for a moment. 'My love…think of the thing's we'd do…'_

'_The things we _will_ do, Agathe,' Georg corrected her resolutely. 'I'm never going to let you out of my sight again.'_

'_Do you remember Florence…,' she whispered, referring to the city in which they had spent their tenth wedding anniversary. At the time Agathe had been unsure about leaving the children, but Georg had insisted on a weekend alone, reassuring her that Liesl, Friedrich and little Louisa would be well looked after by their grandmother. In retrospect, she was glad she had been persuaded._

'_Do I remember…!' Georg chuckled, tenderly brushing a wisp of hair from her face. 'I don't think we left the hotel for the first few days.'_

'_Mmm.' Her eyes sparkled and her face seemed to lose some of its grey pallor as she remembered. 'I wonder if we should ever tell Kurt where he was conceived,' she joked affectionately. _

'_Some day, darling, some day', Georg replied smiling, arranging the eiderdown around her shoulders as she decided to lie down. 'Just think of all other anniversaries we're going to have…' As the words left his lips, he actually believed them._

'_The next big one will be our twentieth, I suppose. That isn't even so many years away….' Agathe could not prevent her tears from creeping out. 'Georg, I want you to do something for me on that day.'_

'_We'll be celebrating together, darling,' he told her firmly, unwilling to concede the possibility of another future. To contemplate her death was to bring it closer._

'_I want you to go to the lake, darling,' Agathe continued as if she had not heard him. 'I want you to go down to the lake, to feel the breeze on your face and –'_

'_-We'll go together, Agathe,' Georg interrupted, 'and I'll swing you in my arms and thank God for my wonderful wife.'_

'_No, Georg,' she replied, gasping as her shrunken lungs struggled for air. The conversation had sapped her strength but she struggled to continue. 'On that day you will remember me, but, most of all: you will let me go.' She shook her head as he began to protest. 'You will let me go,' she repeated, 'and you will open yourself to love again.' _

_Seizing her ailing frame so that she was pinned to his chest, Georg stared at her in anguish. 'I couldn't, Agathe…I-'_

'_Of course you could.' She placed a finger over his lips. 'I want you to, I want my children to have a mother, I want you to have a wife.' Extricating herself from his arms, she lay down to sleep. Overcome, Georg buried his face in her hair, spread across the pillow, golden as ever - the one part of her that sickness had been unable to touch. _

_They remained like that for a long time. Outside, the darkness turned to indigo as dawn lightened the sky._

'_I want you to know something, Agathe.'_

'_Yes, darling?' Pressing her hand over his strong one. _

'_I love you.'_

'_Then you can love again….'_

_

* * *

_

I must, Georg told himself. I don't have a choice. I must move on. The children need a mother. But Elsa…? Not for the first time, a tiny sliver of doubt coiled around his heart. It had taken him years after Agathe's death to contemplate fulfilling her request, to acknowledge the possibility of letting someone in. But, he reminded himself, Agathe had not just wanted him to remarry. She had wanted him to love again.

Georg felt the breeze on his face. Though it was early morning, the sun was intense, forcing him to loosen his tie. He could sense the early signs of a migraine, the tautness about the temples as the awkward questions pervaded his mind once more. On paper Elsa was perfect – lovely, graceful, effortlessly piercing his frosty façade. But could he imagine her by his side, as his wife here on the veranda? Could he see her with his children, befriending Liesl, tending to Marta and Gretl? And the boys…what would they think of her? How, for instance, would Kurt, in his eleven year old clumsiness, bond with Elsa, with her finesse, her delicate witticisms…? He frowned as the pounding in his head quickened.

Despising weakness, and the feeling of self-loathing which it inevitably engendered, Georg set his shoulders and turned towards the villa. His gaze drifted up to the children's rooms, their curtains still tightly closed against the first light of the May morning. In but an hour those rooms would become hives of activity, Liesl helping Marta and Gretl to don their uniforms, Brigitta braiding her hair, Kurt complaining that he was ravenous. But to dwell on them, Georg knew, was to invite yet more pain – the deadening, shameful guilt that came with detachment.

Pushing such thoughts aside, he strode into the villa, his precise, military steps clicking across the hallway. The faint clang of pots and pans could be heard as Frau Schmidt prepared breakfast; he also made out a few words from the doorway as Franz conversed quietly with the postman. Turning the brass handle to enter his study, Georg picked up the fresh newspaper which had been placed on the desk and settled himself down to read.

'_Hitler fails to impose Anschluss on von Schuschnigg_', the headline declared, going on to explain how the Austrian premier had refused to be intimidated during talks at the Führer's Berchtesgaden retreat.

'Good man,' muttered Georg aloud, glad that the Chancellor shared his views on the country's independence. Inside, though, he suspected that Austria had merely been granted the briefest of reprieves – Hitler had failed to secure the Anschluss via diplomacy: the next time he would surely engage in more persuasive methods.

Reaching into a drawer for some notepaper, Georg framed a letter to his friend, Andreas Kirchhof. A fellow naval captain, and alongside Max one of the few who had retained contact, they had been corresponding for some months now on the Nazi threat. Kirchhof had gone so far as to establish a network of those eager to defend Austria's independence, ready to transform into an active resistance movement should the menace become reality.

A former First Lieutenant on one of Georg's battleships before becoming a Captain himself, Kirchhof had begun to press his friend to assume a leading role in the network. _'I do not know of anyone more capable, nor more steadfast, to guide us in this struggle_,' he had written months before. '_I will never forget your leadership in the Great War and live in the hope that you will defend our country again in its hour of need_.'

Georg's initial reaction had been to see if the threat materialised – at that stage, he still had faith in the League of Nations. Now, as the impotency of that organisation was revealed and Hitler's motives became ever more apparent, he considered the offer more seriously. Slowly dipping his nib in ink, he began to write.

_Dear Andreas,_

_You will forgive my late reply to your letter. Besides attending to business, I considered it best to wait awhile to monitor developments at Berchtesgaden. I had also hoped that the League of Nations would reaffirm its prohibition of the Anschluss as outlined in the Treaty of Versailles. Such hopes were, of course, futile. I am now convinced that active resistance is the only possible response to Hitler's territorial aspirations._

_With this in mind, I accept your offer to take a more active part in the network. Any skills that I have were gained fighting for Austria; I will now use them to defend her. Needless to say, our main enemy in this struggle is apathy – the indifference that makes collaborators of us all. _

_I am leaving for Vienna in the morning and look forward to establishing contact with you in the next fortnight. _

_Your friend,_

_G. Von Trapp_

_PS - I fear that in the future we may have to rely on other methods of communication; suffice to say that the Salzburg Gau__ is rising in influence. _

The scratching sound ceased as Georg set down his pen. The dew outside had evaporated and a brilliant shaft of morning sunshine beamed into his study, illuminating a million specks of dust. The activity had somehow reduced his melancholy. His uncertainty about Elsa had receded by resolving to defend his country, the latter decision reducing the weight of the former. Resistance seemed also, in some indefinable way, to bind him to the children – if he was too raw to connect with them on a personal level, he could still defend their homeland.

Folding the letter, his eye fell on one of the many papers lining the desk. The Mother Abbess's letter, arrangements for yet another governess due to arrive that day. He wondered how long this er – he glanced at the note – Fraulein Maria would survive…If she could only endure two weeks, he would at least have time with Elsa, time to think about her as a wife, to consider if the tenderness and gratitude he felt were suitable foundations for a marriage. After that...

The mouthwatering smell of crispy bacon brought Georg's musings rapidly to earth. Feeling suddenly as if he could match Kurt's appetite, he strode in to breakfast.

* * *

Gau (pl.Gaue), a Nazi party district. Within such a district, numerous party cells (Zelle) would operate. 


	2. Not to be Disturbed

**Chapter Two**

**Not to be Disturbed**

Meals with the children never seemed to progress beyond the sort of constrained artificiality which marks a meeting between a headmaster and his charges. It had not always been so. Five years ago, mealtimes, indeed any sort of meal – picnics, snacks, even evening cocoa – had been awash with chatter and laughter. Drumming his fingers impatiently on the table, Georg could hear the echo of Agathe's tinkling laugh on these occasions, how it used to float above the other voices in its musicality. The contrast with the strained silence which now enveloped the dining room could not have been greater.

'Father?'

He turned to his eldest child, her nervous tones hurting him more than he cared to admit.

'Yes, Liesl?' He tried to answer approachably, but the iron enveloping his heart had somehow crept into his voice.

'Is- is our new governess arriving today?'

'As a matter of fact yes, Liesl, she is.' The thought of the young postulant made him frown. If anything, she seemed even less unqualified to look after his children than those other incompetent disasters. Well, maybe not Fraulein Helga…

'When exactly is she coming, father?' asked Brigitta, with a defiant look towards Friedrich who had been motioning her to remain quiet, fearing the effect of too many questions.

'Since you ask, she should arrive sometime in the afternoon,' said Georg crisply, setting down his napkin. 'Needless to say, I expect you all to be on your best behaviour.' He stared sternly at his children, despite the pang he felt on noticing Gretl's trembling lip.

'Yes father,' they chorused, staring down at their plates.

'Very well then.' Georg rose. 'I expect you will all have a productive day in the schoolroom. Remember to breathe deeply during your walk about the grounds. Liesl, I am placing you in command.'

'Yes, father.'

With a curt nod, Georg turned to leave the room.

'But, father!' Louisa's voice rang out. He turned around in surprise; since Agathe's death, his second daughter had maintained an attitude of sullen silence at mealtimes. Nevertheless, shouting was not to be tolerated.

'Yes, Louisa?' he answered icily. 'Am I to understand the cause of this shrill outburst?'

'Surely you remember…,' Louisa stared at him, her eyes shining with tears. 'Today…today is yours and Mother's…'

The words cut him to the quick. Louisa must have been looking at the family album again, the date of the wedding embossed in gold beneath the smiling photograph of himself and Agathe. May 16th, 1918.

'I assure you, Louisa,' – and there was no mistaking the ice in his voice – ' that I am perfectly aware of that fact.'

Closing his hands into tight fists at his sides, he walked stiffly out of the room, just as his own eyes began to shine like his daughter's.

* * *

Maria gasped as she entered the gilded ballroom, he hands involuntarily touching her cheeks. She could imagine the Hapsburgs of her history lessons in a room such as this, Franz Joseph and his lovely wife Sisi. The carved gold, the paintings, the light from the lake dancing on the ceiling…this was a room made for nobility, for ladies with fans and men in uniform.

She turned around in awe. Despite the tinge of guilt for intruding without permission, Maria could not resist bowing to the nobility who sparkled so brightly in her mind's eye. A deep courtier's bow, a silly flutter of the hand –that was what the aristocracy would expect, after all…

Suddenly, the door opened, slamming loudly against the wall. Maria flew up from her bow, her heart beating wildly, blood pounding about her ears. A sharp pair of eyes scanned her before the figure turned sideways, waiting impatiently for her exit. The Captain.

The light from the hall outlined his upright profile in the gloom of the ballroom. Maria could not help recalling the Reverend Mother's words: a fine man. She smoothed down her burlap jacket nervously, meeting his eyes as she scuttled past him through the doorway.

'In the future you will kindly remember there are certain rooms in this house which are not to be disturbed.' The speed of his request was such that a less articulate speaker would surely have stuttered.

'Yes Captain.' She studied him closely, eager to add another face to her limited gallery of experience. 'Sir.' She added to be proper.

'And why do you stare at me in that way?' he inquired coldly.

'Well, you don't look at all like a sea captain sir,' she answered breathlessly, the relief that he was not the fierce bearded skipper of her imagination coming through.

He briefly raised his eyebrows with a calm sort of irony. '_You_ don't look at all like a governess.' Maria sensed that in mirroring her words it was almost as if he enjoyed bantering. Unsure of how to respond, she raised her eyebrows.

'Turn around please.'

'What?' She did as she was bid, mystified by this strange request.

'Hmm, turn.' Her eyes widened in defensive surprise.

'Hat off'. He motioned with his head.

He sighed. 'It's the dress. You'll have to put on another one before you meet the children.'

'But I don't have another one.' Maria could scarcely keep the anxiety from her voice – surely the dress did not really matter so much? 'When we entered the abbey our worldly goods were given to the poor,' she added by way of explanation, nervously fingering her hat.

'What about this one?'

'Well the poor didn't want this one…'

'Mmm,' he murmured, as much as to say, '_I can see why._'

'Well I would have made myself a new dress but there wasn't time,' Maria explained. 'I can make my own clothes,' she added helpfully.

'Well, I'll see that you get some material. _Today_ if possible.'

There was a slight pause, in which Georg began to pace.

'Now, Fraulein umm, hmm,' he clicked his fingers – 'Maria' she supplied obligingly – 'I don't know how much the Mother Abbess has told you –'

'- Not much,' she interjected.

'You are the twelfth in a long line of governesses who have come to look after my children since their mother died. I trust that you will be an improvement on the last one – she stayed only two hours.'

'What's wrong with the children sir?' Maria frowned. Twelve governesses…that was surely some sort of record.

'Oh, there's nothing wrong with the children, only the governesses.' He paused.

'Oh', she mouthed in mock understanding, though in truth she was still mystified. Did he really say twelve?

'They were completely unable to maintain discipline, without it this house cannot be properly run. You will please remember that Fraulein?' – his words took on a stern military edge, an effect strengthened by his pacing. Maria could now understand the origin of his military decorations – even she knew that such a decisive capacity to give orders was integral to war. But to adopt that manner during peacetime, in his own house…? The whole thing might have been funny if it were not quite so real.

'Yes, sir,' she replied.

'Every morning you will drill the children in their studies, I will not permit them to _dream _away their summer holidays. Each afternoon they will march about the grounds, breathing deeply. Bedtime is to be strictly observed, no exceptions.'

'Excuse me, sir, when to they play?' Maria could not believe that such military discipline formed the boundaries of the children's world.

He continued as if she had not spoken. 'You will see to it that they conduct themselves at all times with the utmost orderliness and decorum. I am placing you in command.'

'Yes, sir,' she replied involuntarily, raising her hand in salute - his military manners prompting in her an equally formal, if slightly teasing, response.

As if to dispel any doubts about the reality of his military system, the Captain blew fiercely on his whistle.

Maria could not prevent her mouth hanging open in disbelief. The man seemed wholly unaware of the unsuitability of summoning his own children in such a way.

The shrillness of the whistle was replaced by a pounding of feet, prompting Maria to shrink back towards the wall. The Reverend Mother had said seven children, but the sound seemed more reminiscent of a herd of wild elephants.

'One, two, three…,' she counted as the children appeared on the balcony and marched downstairs to the whistle's accompaniment. This was utterly absurd…

* * *

Utterly absurd, Maria repeated to herself as she splashed water on her face that evening in her room. Yet for all this, she felt could not dislike the Captain.

True, the children were ridiculously treated as naval cadets, but she did not think he did so out of administrative delusion or pettiness. Instinctively, she felt that he was somehow laying on the military effects to insulate himself. He was certainly not cruel – the playful way he had tapped Brigitta on the bottom as she arrived late with her book, the slight smile as he inspected little Marta, the mild look of embarrassment as Gretl stepped forward but forgot to give her name. Why, then, the military routine?

Maria dried her face thoughtfully. Her suitcase was visible through the bathroom door but she did not feel like unpacking. True, the Reverend Mother had sent her here on God's errand. But she had never imagined that His work would be so mystifying.

* * *

Georg drummed his fingers on the dining room table for the second time that day. The new Fraulein was obviously taking her time.

He glanced at his children, observing Louisa for slightly longer than the others. Her expression was inscrutable; she had obviously inherited his capacity for building walls. He regretted his icy rejection of her at breakfast: it was just – just _too painful_ to discuss certain memories.

Light footsteps could be heard rushing down the stairs. Fraulein Maria. Georg's face assumed its usual sardonic mask – after all, he did not want to appeal mindful of the pinecone gently resting on the chair opposite. Yet, as the footsteps came closer, for some reason Agathe's words sprang to mind: '_You will open yourself to love again… I want my children to have a mother_…_I want you to have a wife._'


End file.
